The Runaway
by Taluliaka
Summary: So this is how it's supposed to end? Lucifer, all up in my face, his Vessel's face flaking off all over my jacket? A Blade twisting my Grace away? Don't bet on it kiddo. How many times do I gotta tell you? You can't trick a Trickster.
1. Genesis

**The Runaway**

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**Disclaimer:** _I do not own Supernatural._

**Chapter 1: Genesis**

_ -HAMMER OF THE GODS- Gabriel:_ "I'm not a spy. I'm a runaway."

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"Hey bro."

"Gabriel...what are you doing?"

"Watching _2001: A Space Odyssey_."

"Why?"

"Becaaaauuse...I want to?"

"The forces of Hell are massing, Gabriel. Lucifer is walking free. Why will yo-"

"Sshh. The monkeys are about to discover the Domino-thingy."

"Gabriel-"

"_Sit down, Castiel_."

"...Fine."

"Popcorn?"

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I stand on the edge of the Void. Its' edges are still weeping with shreds of Lucifer's Grace. They cry to my own, a deep and grating shriek that sets everyone on edge.

Nobody comes here.

Here is where Michael threw his brother down.

Here: where everything changed.

The Host has never before known pain as this. It pervades the slopes of Heaven, slips about the bright edges of the Kingdom. Michael's light has dulled and he drifts, made rootless with grief.

I am the only one of the Seven who has the foolishness to descend to the lower domains since the battle. Everywhere there is a cacophony of voices, begging for orders, for a message.

Messenger they call me.

What do I tell them? That their brothers bicker, snap, bull against each other? The words that are spoken in haste, in fury, in helplessness? That the Metatron is diminished? That our Father is-

I say nothing.

I stand at the edge of the Void, and I ignore the brush and swell of the others. I mourn for what has been lost.

The Horn spirals to Earth. I do not care where it lands.

I do not care if Heaven tears itself apart in my absence. I do not care what they will think about the Strength of God deserting his post.

Even if they say-_Fallen_-it is better than this.

Nobody will go to the Void, because the Void is what they attempt to forget.

I hope they forget me.

I open my wings, and turn my back on Heaven.

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"I do not understand the point of this film."

"Nobody does."

"What are you drinking?"

"It's called xocolatl. What? I used to hang out with Huehuecoyotl."

"You...you are not how I thought you would be."

"Yeah? Well, get used to disappointment."

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Sigyn sobs bitterly in the darkness, stumbling back and forth with her bowl. Loki groans long and low as the venom burns him, and the tremors of his legs shake the world.

I burn their eyes with my presence as I descend.

Sigyn covers her eyes. Loki cannot.

I am made to judge. I burned Sodom, I have slaughtered millions. I have watched my family rupture.

"What do you want?"

Loki strains towards his wife desperately as she screams, her eyes melting and bubbling through her clenched fingers.

"I offer oblivion."

When your ending has always been known to you, is it comforting to know you can choose another?

"Who are you?"

There is hope in the pagan's eyes.

"I am the one who will strangle the serpent, and break the ties that bind you."

"What is your name?"

Sigyn explodes in blue-white light.

"To the world, it will be Loki."

I approach him, see myself reflected in his eyes.

I reach out, read his memories, see his thoughts, create a Loki-shell to settle around myself.

He dies without learning my name.

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"I fear that I am...Falling."

"You know the drill better than I do, little bro. You defy orders, you Fall. And damn did you question the brass this time."

"I do not regret my actions."

"Never said you did."

"Gabriel. I fear that I am...becoming human."

"Worse things could happen."

"That is not very comforting."

"Well if you wanted to be comforted, you shoulda said so!"

_Click._

"FUCK! Cas? What the fuck just happened?"

"_Dean?_"

"You can thank me later, lover boys!"

"Gabriel, you sonuvabitch-"

_Click_.

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I find my true Vessel dying in Bostogne, 1945, snow thick around his bloody foxhole.

He liked to play pranks on his fellow soldiers.

He liked to smoke and laugh and he wanted to see home again before he died.

He consents with his dying breath.

The Vessel's soul departs, and I do not begrudge it its freedom.

Instead, I cramp myself into the body's limited spaces, try speaking through its fragile vocal cords, standing on its unsteady feet.

Then I crook its fingers, press together the thumb and middle finger.

And snap the snowy forest into darkness.

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So this is how it's supposed to end?

Lucifer, all up in my face, his Vessel's face flaking off all over my jacket?

A Blade twisting my Grace away?

Don't bet on it kiddo.

How many times do I gotta tell you?

You can't trick a Trickster.

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**Author's Notes:** _What can I say? I can't resist Richard Speight Jr._

_Concrit well received,_

_**Taluliaka.**_


	2. Huehuecoyotl

**The Runaway**

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**Disclaimer:** _See Chapter 1._

**Chapter 2: Huehuecoyotl**

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From the forest of Bastogne I project myself. It is not like flying, and it leaves a definite knot of unease. There are blurred, twisted fragments of trees, the foreign sensation of being crushed by the bands of Time. It cracks my newly-found limbs and dims the edges of my Grace. I fear-the first time I will ever fear- being lost in this howling, flailing, twisting _absence_ of a journey forever.

I am blind, and my wings stretch out to gain purchase against this phantom wind.

Blind and hurtling through space and time, locked in a body, experimenting with the essence of a god tormented for millennia. I think of the disapproving faces of the Six-how I pace the edges of blasphemy! Loki's memories are corkscrewed, patches of unnerving static where my death-blow has erased them. But one rises, Loki at banquet, gods ringing him with patches of shade, mocking him with drunken laughter. He leaves, the bronzed pillars and ruddy firelight, the solid shapes of hunting hounds, the taste and crunch of browned meat-they turn to a night cleared of blinding stars, wolves to his left in the forest, howling their dreadful promises. A peaceful place.

I snag that location, hold it fast and burning, and command the earth as Loki once did.

_-STOP-_

And I stumble to a halt, knee-deep in skeleton leaves.

An unseen tree root snags an ankle, and I fall badly, awkwardly onto the floor of the forest. There I lie, embarrassed, encumbered by this physical body. For an instant, I wish to return to Heaven. But there, beneath the earth, strums a benevolent earth-song, streams of green fire, a fierce and vibrant love tune which shudders all through the lines of my body. I laugh for the first time, and let the Earth tell me of its joy, and love it in return.

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In order to impersonate Loki, I must learn to be a god.

A god, and a trickster.

There are tricksters all across the Earth, in nearly all of the cultures that have ever walked and dreamt of things larger than themselves. I chase them across time, fan their dragging flames, and learn what they can teach.

My first lesson in godhood comes at the hands of Huehuecoyotl. He dances frenetically, madly, to the sound of drums that are faint, and yet stimulating. It tires me to travel this far, and so quickly. And yet the moment I land, the distant _thumpthumpthumpthump _tangles itself into my Grace and I lunge to his side to join the dance.

Huehuecoyotl is all stinging colour. For a moment when he wildly spins, he becomes a coyote feathered with strands of darkness, then a dark-skinned human with eyes bright and fearsome. We dance together at the edge of the firelight, feet hammering the earth until it groans. All around us his worshippers crowd, sweating and gasping for breath, leaping and gyrating.

Huehuecoyotl dances until his people are on their knees with exhaustion. Their attempts to breathe are ugly snarls and whistles, and all the air stinks of sweat. I feel something give in my chest-and all of a sudden I am breathing as well, snatching gulps of air with a greediness that frightens me.

"Stop! Stop! You must stop!"

A woman falls to the ground. Huehuecoyotl runs out his pink tongue and laughs at me.

"Stop!" I scream at him, trying to imbue the sound with my Heaven-writ authority, and my throat burns.

Another worshipper staggers too near the fire, and there is the sizzle of flesh. A yell of agony.

The dark god's lips writhe back from white fangs.

He is killing me. He is killing us all.

Just as the world begins to mist at the edges, there is a flash of fur and obsidian, and the glitter of cool glass. The god Tezcatlipoca unleashes his irritation, batting his fellow god aside with huge paws, scattering the bonfire into embers. As darkness falls over the clearing, Tezcatlipoca snarls at me and fades into jaguar-patterned tendrils of smoke.

The next morning, atop an Aztec temple, Huehuecoyotl introduces me to a bitter brown drink called xocolatl. It has a smooth, rich sweetness to it that makes me...happy.

He plays madcap pranks on his brothers and sisters, stealing Tlaloc's intended bride Chalchiuhtlicue and receiving for his pains a wild storm that lasts three weeks, goading Xolotl into fits of unbridled fury by replacing the sun he guards at night with round yellow fruits and the feathers of eagles, seducing Quetzalcoatl to drink until he sleeps with virgin priestesses and then fleeing the emotional bloodbath which follows.

I follow him everywhere, dance, drink endless cups of xocolatl, and learn to laugh as he does: equally, without malice.

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**Next Chapter:** Gabriel learns more lessons from the earthly gods and shapes what he will become.

Thanks to Blueridgebeauty and the authors that put this story on alert.

_**Taluliaka.**_


	3. Each Uisge

**The Runaway**

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Disclaimer:

_See Chapter 1._

**Chapter 3: Each Uisge**

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If Huehuecoyotl is firelight and fang, than the Each Uisge is water and shadow. I pace the edge of a deep Scottish loch, where the stars drown themselves in strange sea-tides. As the last light fades from the horizon, he comes from the dark waters, kelp tangling his mane and striping his sleek sides. Trickster he may be, but of a dark kind, and he rolls the whites of his eyes and curls his lip with malice at my Vessel-form. He takes the form of a wild stallion, finely proportioned, but of monstrous size, coat sable-on-black. I watch him haunt the slopes of his loch, allowing the sheep to pass unmolested beneath his nose, hungering for a different prey. Man is his enemy, this prince of waterhorses, discontent like his milder kin to merely sport with and prank them. With tricks he beguiles them, and willingly they drown themselves, blind to reason, blind to danger.

My Father's children, stumbling into the mouth of the hunter. Lambs they are rightfully called. Is it contempt that churns within me, I who have spent time amongst men, guided them, aided them? Is it my contempt, or does it bleed from Loki's fellow god as he paces restlessly through the fields? He outstrips my Vessel's stride, flirts his black tail with annoyance as he gallops past. His eyes, twin pools, challenge me. I know from Loki's memories of shape-shifting how to become a semblance of another form, but I have feared so far corrupting my Vessel's form with so strange a trick. The Each Uisge passes me again, whinnying in mockery, and I concentrate-picture-_shift_-

And follow him, four legs instead of two, caught up in the rush of speed. I catch a glimpse of my form in the waters, dappled like the moon caught in clouds, and for an instant in each galloping stride I leave the earth- I _fly_. I run for hours, it seems, across the grass, oblivious to fence and rock and darkness, the Each Uisge my constant companion, waterweeds streaming from his mane and tail like banners. When we prop at last at the water's edge, weariness and exaltation are like twin flames burning in my blood.

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The townspeople that live nearby know of the haunted loch, and are too wary to stray near the waters after nightfall, no matter how attractive the two horses are that play upon the shoreline. But sometimes strangers pass through, those who are too curious, or sceptical, or foolish enough to believe that they could catch and hold a Celtic water-spirit and bind it to their will. They come, one after another, and the Each Uisge dances for them all. He comes to them, nudges their hands with a gentle nose, holds their gaze with liquid eyes, is so friendly, acts so tame, tricks so well, that all are convinced. One night two youths come, intent on capturing the two strayed horses that are known to graze by the loch in the evening. They mount us, one each, and become fused to our backs. I grip my boy tightly, his every scream sending a joyous shudder throughout my body. I prance wildly, arch my neck, wink at the Each Uisge, and he laughs with me until the waters close over our heads. The next morning all the townsfolk find are two livers, torn from writhing stomachs, floating in and out on the bloody tide.

One afternoon, under a pale blue sky, we watch two maidens playing in our field, picking flowers and running through the tall grass, shrieking with joy. The Each Uisge stands flank-to-flank with me in the loch, and I feel the impatience shivering in his limbs, the desire to dig his hooves into the shifting sands and emerge, dripping, from the water. But we must wait for the sun to set, and I rub against him comfortingly, nip him gently until he turns his wild eyes from the humans and touches noses with me.

I distract him until the last burning rays lift from the loch, and then he explodes forward, black muscle shifting under gleaming hide, gaining the sand swiftly- and to my surprise- standing upright, pale skin rippling over dark fur, mane shrinking, his human form long-haired, lean and muscled, with burning eyes to bring a blush to any maiden's cheek. I follow slowly, my own Vessel's form clumsy and slow, and I stumble on the uneven ground where on four legs I could run with barely a check. Unfortunately one of the maids has more wit than her friend, who is already enchanted with the dark stranger who has approached them, and drags her away, shouting for help, robbing the Each Uisge of his prey. Furious, he makes to slough off his human form, but I stop him, reaching out to touch the skin pale as marble, tracing the kelp still twisted in his unruly hair.

He is beautiful in this form, streamlined and strong, so much worthier of life than the weeping girls that struggle towards the village, where lights flicker into life. Silhouetted against the yellow moon, his eyes piercing my disguise, my desire floods me. He is the same kind- _trickster-kind_-his knowledge is Loki's knowledge, and Loki is Gabriel now. And so I take my first lover from among the pagan gods.

I do not know whether tricksters are capable of love. Loki's time with Sigyn is blurred- I know she chose to follow him into exile, but was it love or duty that compelled her? I like to think that I loved the Each Uisge, and that somewhere behind those shadow-eyes he could feel something akin to that for Gabriel-Loki. But tricksters are solitary creatures, and when he turns cold towards me, it is with a certain relief that we part ways, he disappearing without a ripple into his shadowy realm, and I clicking away the blinding sunrise, travelling on.

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**Next Chapter:** Gabriel seeks out more of Earth's tricksters, and becomes aware of his Heavenly hunters.

Thanks go to The Singing Duck for reviewing, DarthSlytherin, FancyJumper and Wandering Hitokiri for adding this story to their Favourites, and to freekaleek4jello, L Moonshade, Lucillia, Rainbe and xmasfairyholly for putting this story on Alert. Hope you enjoy.

**_Taluliaka._**


	4. Trojan Horse

**The Runaway**

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**Disclaimer:** _I do not own Supernatural._

**Chapter 4: Trojan Horse**

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Two men circle in front of a golden city. Both hold bronze spears, heft their weight in sun-browned hands. Hektor has a long, solemn face, and Akhilleus possesses grey eyes sharp as flint. Unseen to either, Athena stands beside them on the Plain of Troy. Her face is too strong to be beautiful, and her body as unforgiving as stone. Her eyes are the eyes of a hawk, and she waits hungrily for Hektor's life-blood to gush out over the dust. I observe as unobtrusively as I can from in the shade thrown by the shadows of Troy's outer defences. I do not interfere.

Soon enough, Hektor loses his spear in an ill-timed throw, and calls for another. Athena sheds her mortal guise and fades into the atoms of charged air which surround their battle. He curses her roundly, draws his blade and rushes his opponent, who chops into the meat of his leg as calmly as if he were taking an axe to a tree. His next blow cracks several bones in Hektor's shoulder and slices deeply into his neck, and the final blow makes Hektor's head tear partway off its supports. Arterial spray drenches Akhilleus' armour. Athena screeches with glee, Akhilleus ties the twitching corpse to his chariot and a legend is born.

After a moment of reflection, I clap my hands a few times. Athena snaps her head about and stares at me with raised eyebrows.

The goddess picks her way to where I lean, and I dim my Grace instinctively. She leans in close to my blank expression. Her voice is like hearing the approach of a thunderstorm, low and angry.

"What are you?"

"The same as you."

She cocks her head, leans heavily on her shield. She eyes me as though wondering how my head would look on her wall.

"God?"

"Trickster."

She spits at me like an angry snake, recoiling in disgust.

"_Trickster!_ God-kind is not Trickster-kind. I should part your head from your shoulders!"

Behind her, Akhilleus gallops past in his chariot, dragging the bleeding, broken body of Hektor behind it. If he isn't careful, the only thing he'll be taking back to the Greek ships is a dismembered foot.

Then Athena's blade is cutting into the soft underside of my Vessel's throat and I begin to pay closer attention.

"Peace, lady, peace! I only came to witness your glorious and...beautiful deception of that hairy Trojan monkey."

Her thick eyebrows jump at the word 'beautiful'. Obviously not a familiar epithet. But enough to make her draw back her sword. Not that I fear any physical damage – the only true danger is her being blinded by my Grace –but I have grown fond of my Vessel's form. I don't appreciate it being full of holes.

"What is your name?"

Akhilleus races past again, his grisly prize now minus an arm and most defining facial features.

"Loki."

She relaxes still further, rakes my form with hooded eyes.

"Then I have heard of you, Loki."

"Good things, I trust."

"The last I heard you were banished."

Banished. The parallels our lives take. The pieces of wood being assembled in secret on the beach below isn't the only Trojan Horse in this part of the world. I open my mouth to make some witty comeback but am distracted when the sky cracks open.

There is a terrible howling, the wind shrieking over the wild plain with unearthly force. The clouds boil over, sparking red and green.

The stones at my back groan painfully, as the pieces that comprise them threaten to unknit in the wake of the force that descends. Somewhere, faintly, I hear the death-screech of one of Akhilleus' horses.

Angels.

Of course.

Zachariah has taken necessary measures, and the Hounds of Heaven have been put on my trail. In this time of anarchy and regret, the rules are all-important to keep The Garrison from turning against the higher orders. When one, even one of the Six, abandons their post, there is retribution that comes from the sky to hunt that angel down and tear apart its wings. Grace leaves signs upon the air that those who are able can read. I had noticed them myself in my travels, but they were all minor trails left long ago by lesser beings carrying out orders – I did not investigate further, merely teased them out from the filaments of the wind and left them to drift once again in the currents.

I look at the goddess beside me, her mouth slack with astonishment as she watches the sky twist and wrench itself.

"What-" she begins, and I snap her to darkness, and a grove of olive trees grown wild, somewhere in the foothills of Greece. Under the thick boughs I watch the sky carefully, hoping I have shaken them.

No good. The sky bucks, glows green-copper-deep brown, flaps of matter cloven in two by the pursuing warriors.

_Snap._

Under the bulk of the pyramids, where a wound tears into the bellies of the clouds overhead-

_Snap._

The midst of a bustling city, street lights garish, metal burning as cars swing past, and there on the horizon a speck of light, great rivets of air being displaced as they fold their wings and squeeze through-

_Snap._

Underground, stumbling over abandoned picks and buckets, a mine-shaft crawling with blind worms and beetles, and there, even there the ground begins to shake-

_Snap._

My fingers are trembling. They mean to wear me out. I curse fluently in Aztec-Gaelic- Greek- Hebrew-Enochian- and then change my words, imbue them with power. I do not know their names from so far away, but I gather strands of their Grace from where I stand on a Trojan hillside and rip them from their points, banish them as far as I can.

Immediately they begin to swing back towards me, and I find I am too weary to properly grasp the shifting of time that Loki commands – and my wings explode outward and embrace the sky. Michael may be the _equal_, one we all respect, but I am the _strength_ and these Garrison-angels have never fought an archangel in his element.

I spin through the upper atmosphere, combing the clouds. The earth spirals away beneath me. The air explodes above my head- they must have had the cooperation of Uriel himself to pierce through so quickly- and one of The Garrison launches himself at me, Blade unsheathed and arching for the base of my right wing. I roll wildly, grab for his arm and we grapple madly for possession of his Blade, falling several thousand meters.

I flare my wings and throw him off, but another slashes down, the rest following our plunge –eight in all, each armed, each chosen for their speed and savagery, their obedience and their detachment. I am caught, for a terrifying instant, in a circle of Blades, a lucky blow scrapes over my feathers –only a touch but there is a sickening strike of pain that makes me shut my wings and dive. I summon my own Blade, and the wind sings against the edge as it hits it.

The first angel to follow is reckless and comes too close- I pass my Blade through his throat and he screams, swallowed in his own leaking Grace. Two more I take with the same quick slice to their Vessel's throats, one I maim with a cut to a wing that sends him fluttering and straining uselessly to earth. Their leader screams an order, her voice lost in the speed of our fight, and the last four band together and drive me before them.

One I recognise-Baradiel-and I banish him with sigil and word- the ground grows closer. The air is heavy with the storm and I allow it to weigh me down, drive my body to close with the earth. The angels are wary and slow their pace, but the sky is boiling above and more Garrison-angels are being summoned to the crack above the battlefield where we singe the sky.

I skim the ground, flying hard and starting to feel the harrowing pins of exhaustion drive into my limbs. Here there is dusk, lit eerily in places by the angelic storm above, bare tundra and deep canyons. I land in one, staggering badly upon landing, blood and feathers trailing behind me.

There is an aggressive growl- I lower my Grace as far as I can and watch yellow eyes gleaming curiously at me from the rocks. A huge grey coyote pads out from amongst the ridges of stone and looks queerly at the sky. There is far too much knowledge in that gaze.

There are angels overhead, one trailing fire from the tips of his wings – _Uriel I perceive you_-and I collapse into fellow coyote-form, brown and red-flecked, shaking all over.

Coyote leads me away without question, until at some point I am in a den sheltered by rock and sand-and my fellow trickster growls uneasily at the striped sky as I drift- and at some point I cease to care about conscious things.

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**Author's Notes:** _Thank you to those who reviewed: karmagrl76, The Singing Duck and Gyp Dark, and as usual, those who have put this story on Alert or in their Favourites. _

**Next Chapter:** _Coyote's wisdom, Baron Samedi's cigars, Kali's anger and Gabriel/Loki returns to Valhalla._

_Until next time,_

**_Taluliaka._**


	5. End Days

**The Runaway**

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**Disclaimer:** _I do not own Supernatural._

**Chapter 5: End Days**

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I return from the darkness when Coyote calls. He is blocking the entrance of the den with his shoulders, and loose dirt is showering from the curved overhang of the roof. Coyote is worried- the sky is still flashing and I can feel the rupture of the sky above, the many different threads of Grace-forms that streak above. They still hunt for me.

Coyote turns to me, fangs bared and flashing pink-green-blue as they reflect the storm outside. His voice is old, old in a way that makes me feel impossibly young (which is illogical) and it vibrates through the night, making true coyotes turn their snouts to the invisible moon and the grass move on the plain.

"_The Bright Ones_."

I force my legs to take my weight-displaced, my wing burns beneath. I lose focus, shake my head sharply to rid myself of the hum.

"_Come, little brother_."

I follow.

The angel that I struck down to earth is wobbling about on the plain like a new fledgling, attention fully on the sky. He is young, too young to keep an eye on what might be nearby in the warm night, or to imagine any danger more present than his injury. My pursuers are beginning to burn their way back through the gap, and grounded, he flutters helplessly, desperate to rejoin their ranks. I can see even from this distance the damage I have done – an exact cut diagonal across the limb, arresting movement.

He is obviously made for speed- his every line yearns forward for the embrace of the open air-every particle in his Grace twists with longing and unhappiness. There must be a thousand like him in The Garrison-they excel as scouts and seekers, willing to follow any order if it means they can take flight. Above, one of the angels turns, wheeling overhead like a dying star.

"_Castiel, Castiel_," it calls in a throbbing voice, and the stranded angel rocks forward, Grace flaring brilliant blue shards in his desire to respond. Truly, this is the only punishment I could give this Garrison-angel he could understand. Grounded he will stay, and may he suffer for being foolish enough to challenge me.

Coyote has other ideas.

"_Send the Bright One back to the stars_."

I growl deep in my belly.

"No."

"_Here is a place for the eagle, the younger brothers, the rattlesnake-for sunshine fire and warm moon which snares the jackrabbit. It is not a place for such as He."_

"He tried to kill me."

Tried to take my wings-send me screaming to earth-the stench of charred flesh and feathers and Grace spilling into the mortal air-the horror of falling you cannot explain to those who have never experienced flight.

"_It is not a place for such as He."_

Above, Uriel passes through the gap, and the storm lessens, rolls back patchily to reveal velvet sky. Castiel keens shrilly out on the plain, worry slowly building to fear as he is left behind. Garrison-angels do not experience loneliness as other orders do, they are always together, and their Grace whispers _safe_ and _belonging_ and _together _and _same_ as hundreds brush each other and thousands are close by-maybe he has never been alone before tonight.

The humming begins again, closer now, cancelling out the noises of the night and Coyote stiff beside me. I rub my head on my front leg, annoyed- it swells and drowns me. Prophecy. Faint, indistinct, certainly not as clear as revelation, but...

I hesitate.

Castiel behind a door-blood snaking on the ground- two boys- a man sticks his hand into boiling water and a woman screams –demons closer to the surface-Death walking on the streets-the Apocalypse.

The damn Apocalypse?

My doubt makes the visions redouble in strength – a woman pinned to the ceiling- two men on a highway-a warehouse covered in sigils-Alistair laughing- Crawford Hall- a gun – Azazael under a demon-filled sky-Hell lurching upwards- and War- and blades – and pain – Elysian Fields Motel and lightning- an empty crib- and blood pouring from all the nations of the world-

OKAY. Okay, fine. I get it.

The stinging in my ears lessens and the world spins back onto its axis. I look on Castiel again, and see only an angel of the Host, replaceable, expendable. I do not see a difference.

Nevertheless...

Coyote growls approvingly as Castiel wings his way Heaven-ward without a backward glance. I content myself with rolling my coyote-eyes and turning away. The ancient trickster catches me up with one leap, and cants his yellow eyes at me as I limp along.

"_What?_"

"I have seen...something."

"_Future times?_"

"The end of times."

Ragnarök. Odin will be pleased if he brought it up as much as Loki's memory suggests he did. Apparently some people get their kicks from being eaten by giant wolves.

Coyote laughs at me, bares teeth and tongue and laughs posed against the jackrabbit-shape inscribed on the orange moon.

"_Little brother, time will never end_."

I wish I had his optimism.

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I try and distract myself from the coming Apocalypse –hundreds of years away of course, but also no more than a blink, a beat of my wings and it's here, Michael and Lucifer tearing apart the world and each other while I...what?

Bury my head in the sand and ignore the way my brothers and sisters will tear into each other, each confident they are waging war under the benevolent eye of a Father who _isn't even there-?_

Well, that way madness lies- and all that jazz.

So I dig some graves with Baron Samedi instead, let his rum burn its way through my insides, smoke his cigars, steal his top hat while he's passed out with some native girls he 'saved'- exhausted from showing their appreciation for laying down his shovel-

-then I leap London's gates with Spring-Heeled Jack, where he blows fire into the faces of young ladies and launches random attacks on confused bobbies-he's an interesting fellow to talk to, if you don't mind a face full of phosphorous and sulphur and the constant maniacal laughter-

-then to spice-laden India, where Kali smoulders, anger and compassion warring within her for the people she calls her own. She is a dark goddess, slick with the blood of her victims, and her many arms grip and grasp as though to crush life from and caress at the same instant. For a while I lose myself in the blood and sex and rough affection she displays at odd moments- we slay demons together and I pretend not to understand when they curse me in Enochian-

Eventually, she tries to kill me- and I depart, wandering again, annoyed, sex-deprived, cursed a thousand-fold in Loki's name by the goddess of destruction, which screws up my ability to click sweet things into existence for a while.

I wander all the way to Valhalla, which was inevitable, because I'm curious about the trickster I stripped to hide away in, his memories tangled with my own- and stupid, because I'm growing to realise that the underlying cause of nearly all nasty splattery death on this earth is because something was curious.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** _Thank you to those who have put this on Alert: Indignant Lemur, AuntMo and caetria, and bornwithblackglitter for adding this story to their Favourites. I appreciate these silent shows of interest, but I'd love some definite comments. Throw me a review people! I'd love to know what you think. _

**Next Chapter: **_Valhalla, giant wolves, sexy Valkyries and Gabriel takes a stroll in Niflheim._

_Until next time,_

_**Taluliaka.**_


	6. Hel, Scorned

**The Runaway**

* * *

**Disclaimer:** _I do not own Supernatural._

**Chapter 6: Hel, Scorned**

* * *

And so the Prodigal Son returns, yea verily, to the place from whence he originated.

Not that anyone here would understand that reference.

Wearing the Loki-suit I am, I recognise Valhalla the instant I reach it. Huge halls, archways, bridges, Norse symbols and weapons carved into every surface, the mountains and the stones and the pale dawn sky- everything is as Loki saw it, except for one interesting fact.

Scour his thoughts though I do, there is never any reference to Valhalla being _imaginary_.

It could be his final petty bit of revenge against me – not mentioning that the entire _world_ twists and fades and moves like some giant stony _serpent_.

One moment I'm walking over a solid golden bridge towards the cluster of buildings- the next it's literally melting away from beneath my feet, and it's only with a lot of flailing and physical exertion that I make the other side before the entire thing blinks out of existence.

And then the main hall I'm aiming for flickers out and reappears in the middle of the gorge, suspended in mid-air. Attempting to click my way over there achieves nothing – it appears in Odin's realm everyone has to abide by his rules.

Stranded on a ridiculous patch of etched stone on top of a random mountain, I attempt and fail not to be annoyed.

It appears Valhalla exists entirely according to the whim of Odin-and I can only pray the one-eyed bastard doesn't forget about the flagstone I'm currently standing on, or who knows where I'll end up.

Another golden bridge floats by, completely unattached to anything useful. I eye it hopefully.

"Come here."

It does not.

Damn. So much for that theory.

A shaft of light disentangles itself from the cool air and rethreads itself into the form of a swan. I notice it is lovely, in a wild and elemental way, the way a bolt of lightning may be beautiful even as it scorches. It circles overhead, calling to the rising sun and the ancient mountains. The sound of the wind through its feathers reminds me of home.

And I do not want to be reminded of that.

To my surprise, the swan swings towards me, swooping and diving on the morning thermals, and flutters elegantly to land upon my little slice of Valhalla.

"Find your own piece," I tell it, and wonder vaguely how exactly long it will take me to reach Odin's hall without revealing my Grace. Days? Years?

"Loki?"

The swan has ceased to be a swan. There is still something avian in her profile, something to do with the shape of her cheeks, or mirrored there in her lovely white neck, the liquid centres to her eyes –her shield is carved with wings, and her head is unbowed beneath the weight of her silver helm.

And I remember her, her skin white and smooth as cream. I remember _tasting_ her – the curves of her body under the arches of Valhalla- she would bring Loki mead and refuse to meet his gaze- surrounded by all the bawdy, thrusting words of the _einherjar_, the heroic souls who feast endlessly at Odin's table -and it was Loki who made her blush.

She is Valkyrie.

She is...

"Hrist."

Hrist is visibly unsettled. She is the first of her sisters to return from the battlefield, and she did not expect to find me here on the outskirts of Odin's realm. Not when I am supposed to be underground, banished, Sigyn and snake my only company. She clutches at my arms and trills with anxiety.

"Is it come, Loki? Is Ragnarök come?"

"What? No, Hrist, no, not yet. I was just..."

"But it was foreseen! That you would be released when it began –that you would come to the battlefield..."

Her cloak swirls like agitated wings; she crushes herself to my chest and her dark curls are like flowing water beneath my hands.

"..._that I would lose you_..."

"Hrist, Hrist, my swan, my _valkyrja_, I was not released."

I lift her delicate face, feel my tongue loosened, Norse words new but familiar flowing forth and calming my little bird.

"I escaped, Hrist."

Hrist shakes her head in denial. No tears flow from her swan's eyes.

"It is impossible."

I laugh and bend my head to claim her lovely mouth.

"Not for a Trickster."

* * *

She begins to tremble again once I release her. I enfold her in my arms, and she shakes her head madly, forcing the words past her lips.

"You must flee, Loki. He will be so angry."

"Who?"

"The Allfather. He who is Lord of the Valkyrie. He knows all. He will call me and he will look into my heart- I cannot hide you from him, I cannot!"

I laugh, lazily. The sun is warm and Hrist is an unexpected treat. I do not fear Odin.

"Who said anything about hiding?"

She tears herself from me in horror.

"Are you mad? You must flee, Loki! He will never forgive you for what you've done."

"And what have I done, little swan?"

Her face slackens in shock.

"You cannot say you forgot what you were bound for! The slaying of Baldur, who was beloved of the gods! Whose soul was lost in Hel when you refused to permit his resurrection!"

Oh yes. I do remember him, once I concentrate. Good-looking, tall, sappy and kind and giving and _golden- _it's too difficult to think of him objectively, when every memory is tainted with Loki's hatred.

"Then it is simple, _valkyrja_. I will go to Hel, and I will take back Baldur's soul. And then..."

I am interrupted by a brazen, ringing sound- a summoning horn floating on the winds from Odin's hall. Mixed in the sound are words, names. Odin is calling the Valkyrie home.

**Skuld. Skögul. Gunnr. Göndul. Geirskögul. Hildr. Mist. Skeggjöld. Hökk. Herfjötur. Göll. Reginleif. ****Geirahöð****. ****Randgríð****. Hrist. ****Ráðgríð****.**

Hrist cries out in fear as her name booms around the gorge and echoes off the mountains. She swings away, ready to take to flight, but I pull her back to finish my sentence.

"_And then_...you and I are going to make up for my time in exile."

I kiss her again and she responds fleetingly, heart fluttering against my chest, and she is a swan again, winging out from my embrace and turning her flight to Valhalla. From the clouds burst swans and ravens, the rest of the Valkyrie answering the horn's imperious call, and I decide to take the moment to...not _flee_...but leave rapidly and undetected.

* * *

If I am to resurrect Baldur, then I need to find Niflheim, wherein lies the region of Hel, where those who died of causes that didn't involve being beheaded on some battlefield go in their afterlives.

Loki's memories are vague on how exactly one finds Niflheim, but I am sure it involved walking. So walk I do, following tiny threads of paths that flow down the mountain's flanks. Valhalla is eventually lost from view, and I find myself whistling and swinging my arms. I did not expect the in-between spaces of the Nine Worlds to be so beautiful. There are tiny alpine flowers that nod in the breeze, and an inviting blue sky that stretches across the horizon.

And a giant wolf.

On my right, ahead on the path is stretched a lean grey wolf, huge in size. Its pants make the meadow grass shiver. The path winds right up beside it, and I follow until I am alongside its huge shaggy head. It is chained to two boulders nearly as large as it is, and saliva mixed with blood flows from its gaping jaws, cruelly held open by a sword whose point pieces the roof of its mouth. The great yellow eyes roll to meet mine, mute, agonised.

_Fenrir._

Loki's child.

Fenrir whines appealingly, and I pity his entrapment. He is, after all, technically my son. I lay my hand on his neck.

"Fenrir."

He growls softly, and I feel its vibrations along his spine. Under his mane, my fingers can feel the silk rope with which the gods bound him.

"_Gleipnir_." I whisper to it.

"Someday you will be broken."

I pull at the chain _Gelgja_, which stops my son from raising his body.

"Someday your links will break."

I run my hand along the boulders' rough sides, moulded by a god's hands.

"_Gjoll, Thviti_, someday you will shatter, and my son will be free."

Fenrir thumps his tail on the ground.

I return to his head, and press two fingers between his golden eyes, summon my Grace.

"I cannot free you, but I can give you something. Sleep, Fenrir. Sleep and dream of Ragnarök."

Dream of eating Odin.

His eyes close, and eventually the path leaves him behind.

* * *

When I reach Niflheim, Hel is already waiting for me, under the cold skeleton trees. The only sound is the snow dripping from the bare branches into the puddles on the ground.

Her right eye is cold and watchful. Her left is grey and blank.

"I watched you come," she tells me, my bitter daughter, born without heat or warmth, born half-dead.

"I watched you on the path, and in Valhalla. I see all that passes in the Nine Worlds."

She smiles, and if a smile could be a thing of ice and thorn, then that is what the smile of Hel would be made from.

My shoes are getting soaked through with icy water. I don't have time for pleasantries. In Niflheim, the cold burrows into your insides.

"Daughter, I am here for the soul of Baldur."

She cocks her head slightly. There is cunning in her gaze.

"Who are you?"

"Loki."

She laughs hoarsely. Presumably she doesn't do it often. I certainly don't feel like ever laughing again, here beneath the roots of Yggdrasil.

"You are not. Loki once swore that he would never allow Baldur to regain life. So I say again, who are you who wears my father's flesh?"

"You are mistaken. I am the same as Loki ever was."

Damn, she isn't going to be fooled by that. She has Trickster blood in her veins.

Hel shakes back her limp hair.

"Is he dead then, my sire? Is he dead that you impersonate him so?"

I hesitate for a moment too long, and Hel's good eye widens. She steps forward –and the last thing I need is another creature trying to kill me, why don't I _learn_-

And kisses my hand.

She kneels in the leaf loam at my feet and _kisses_ _my hand._

"Then I thank you with everything that I am."

I attempt to arrange my thoughts.

"Uh...I...you thank me?"

She rises and smooths her dress, the colour of old blood.

"Yes. I hated Loki. Odin threw me down to this wasteland, and he never lifted a finger to help me. I am the most wretched of my kin, betrayed, reviled, denied."

"Denied what?"

"My birthright."

Hel is the daughter of a god and a giantess. Unless her life's goal was to throw huge rocks around and have the reasoning capabilities of a brain-damaged cow, I assume she means...

"Trickery."

Hel's eyes, even the dead one, light up.

"Yes."

"This role bothers you?"

Hel scoffs.

"Trapped with a million cowardly souls in the lowest of the Worlds – yes, it _bothers_ me. It would be as if I were born the daughter of Thor, and never allowed to set foot on a battlefield or take up a weapon."

Ah yes, Thor. God of beserkers. I wouldn't want to meet any children of his. Well, this was unexpected. But not entirely unwelcome.

"Then I will make you a deal. Give me Baldur's soul, and I will help you leave Niflheim."

She looks at me, considering, calculating. She is every inch Loki's daughter, whether she hated him or not.

She asks just one thing.

"How?"

* * *

A few hours later, I am sauntering back past the sleeping Fenrir towards Hrist and Valhalla, with Baldur's soul in tow.

Hel is no longer in Niflheim –and no one will bother to look too closely at the copy which has taken her place. Niflheim is often overlooked, and even gods are not immune to tricks.

I finally gain Odin's hall after numerous threats, cajoling and promises, and spend my days alternating between re-discovering every inch of Hrist's magnificent body, and trying not to let Baldur grate too heavily on my nerves. (Which is more difficult than it sounds. I am tempted, more than once, to kill him again.)

For the first time since I left Heaven, I stop moving and immerse myself fully in the role of Loki. I will not recall every single prank I played on the Nordic people, or every person I made regret their actions.

It will suffice to say that when the pagan gods became scattered, finally, to the winds, and no one remembered to give offerings to Baldur, or Freyja, or Thor, or Frigga, or even to Odin himself, in their remote cabins in the distant mountains they would shudder at the howling of the wind and huddle close to their fires, and tell stories to while away the savage winter.

And the stories they told were about me.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** _Thank you to those who reviewed and alerted and favourite-d, such as hobbitgirl05, Dronzer, Sleeping Aryll and morph. I throw you all SPN plushies for your awesomeness. I decided to answer some reviews on this page –just because they make valid points others might be curious about._

_To __**Sammy's Wolf Girl**__: Yes, it's true, Hermes is actually the trickster of the Greek pantheon. But in 'The Iliad' it is Athena that tricks Hektor outside the city of Troy so Akhilleus can slay him. And I figured Gabriel/Loki, the hedonistic little thing he is, would be more interested in a goddess going all tricksy on people, especially when it isn't technically in her job description, than a god. Thanks for reviewing!_

_To __**Neurotic-Isopod**__: Thank you –and I'm glad someone mentioned the fact that Gabriel may seem somewhat OOC in the early chapters of this fic. I'm trying to introduce his trademark humour slowly because, as an angel, he would have originally come to Earth as intense and creepy as our dear Cas was in S4. So hang in there –the snark is coming!_

_To __**v son saiyan**__: Thanks for reviewing, and I'm glad you like all the gods- I pretty much typed 'trickster' into Wikipedia and went DAMN there are a lot of them out there. I hope I deliver in this chapter- it was a mixture of research and my own imagination so any discrepancies are all my own fault. As to the length, I'm certainly going to rectify the ending of 'Hammer of the Gods' and go at least to the end of S5. I haven't seen any of S6 yet, so there may be AU dragons if I do a sequel._

**Next Chapter: **_The Apocalypse slowly grows nigh, and we meet the Hunters stupid enough to go after Gabriel/Loki before Sam and Dean._

_Until next time,_

_**Taluliaka.**_


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